His Most Loyal Lexicality
by Greyella
Summary: A collection of non-connected drabbles, prompted by Dictionary dot com's "Word of the Day." Borrowed this idea from Gamma Orionis. Various characters, pairings, and eras. Updated sporadically.
1. Perspicacious

**Perspicacious** \ pur-spi-key-shuhs \ , adjective;  
>1. Having keen mental perception and understanding; discerning;<br>2. Archaic. Having keen vision.

* * *

><p>A hundred likenesses of headmasters froze in framework, as if turned to muggle photographs. The room held breath though its two living occupants did anything but. The portrait observers had no need; their bodies were long buried dead, and their eyes sockets long past housing maggots. Upon the walls, the framed predecessors played neither heckler nor soundboard confidants.<p>

The only movement upon the walls was stilted eyes. They watched Dumbledore's reaction to the fury of this lioness; he calmly ducked another airborne object and again tried to appeal to reason.

"Minerva…" Imploration gentled words…

"You cannot be _serious_, Albus!" Fury swarmed the room, though moonlight only dribbled through; peaking in through the vestige of an open curtain.

Ironically, he quipped, "Would you rather I be _Severus_ in this situation?"

Clearly it was the wrong thing to voice. Before him, blue eyes considered the fuming Gryffindor Head. Minerva was a strange creature, the strong delicate. Her mouth seemed to alternate between pursed and utterly flabbergasted. Her chair was long abandoned and she stood at his desk furiously, armed with wand, but no words.

_[Ever the consummate professional amongst the students, Professor McGonagall was rather the hotheaded Scot when prompted. Mentally, Dumbledore considered offering up a draught of his prized Firewhiskey; the woman clearly could benefit from a good shot. However, upon revisiting this thought, Albus reasoned that currently this was perhaps not the best route to travel (that is, voluntarily offering the volatile witch a drink). Not while Minerva was in a projectile mood at least. And Albus found himself rather disinclined toward a face full of alcohol.]_

As it were, a raging wand _Accio_-ed another random projectile from a nearby shelf. It wasn't due to Minerva's lack of aim, but due rather more to his whimsical self that the Headmaster caught the soft object in hand. The Sorting Hat.

"I'll take that as a _no_ then." Purposefully, half-moon spectacles flickered to the hat before tranquilly placing it upon his desk. "Would you rather then, that I be _Black, Sirius_? This is _serious_ business after all…" Twinkling eyes found emeralds to be sharp and highly unamused.

McGonagall spat her lilt heavily, "You can't Sort your way out of this one, Albus! No, I'd think we'd all rather that you'd avoid lexical levity when delivering news of anticipatory mortality and espe-..."

Twinkles ceased their frivolity as the Headmaster stood gracefully, all traces of nonsense erased from his frame. Perhaps Professor McGonagall felt the bonhomie change. Or perhaps it finally occurred to the formidable witch that she had just spent the last quarter-candlemark pelting the esteemed Headmaster with objects. Either way, she fell silent and the red of her House flushed her cheeks.

"As mortals, Minerva, I think we all anticipate mortality. Just think of me as having a more… perspicacious understanding of mine." Their eyes connected and conveyed trust worthy of decades.

Though lips trembled, her face set stone. Professor McGonagall allowed herself to fall back into the lonely chair.

"Now then, Tabby. Let us try this again…sans your projectile inclinations." Fondly his eyebrow quirked.

Dumbledore sadly amused himself as the witch, Minerva McGonagall, composed herself in the plush armchair; he always knew her patterns (temper, then reason). After all, they had danced this blueprint before; she wasn't his quintessential Gryffindor Head of House in name only.

Brokenly, resigned, she murmured, "Firewhiskey."

His wand was already in motion, "My thoughts exactly…"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> R & R, dearies. Borrowing this idea from _Gamma Orionis_. Era for this is sometime after the summer of 1996, but before Dumbledore's death. I am of the opinion that it would have been out of character for the Headmaster's master plan to hinge on one person alone. He would have told Minerva.


	2. Furcate

**Author's Note I:** Evidently, I enjoy tossing objects about in word format. Who knew? Thought this would be an interesting parallel to the previous drabble. I think it a bloody wonder, but I'm slightly arrogant. If you know, you know. If not, then read the fine print at the bottom; I suggest you seek it out for your viewing and listening pleasure.

* * *

><p><strong>Furcate<strong> \ adj. fur-keyt, -kit; v. fur-keyt \ ;_  
>Adjective<br>_1. Forked; branching.  
><em>Verb (used without object), fur·cat·ed, fur·cat·ing.<br>_2. To form a fork; branch.

* * *

><p>The unexpected visitor entered the doorframe...just as the unexpected blur of silver flashed precious in projectile form, cutting dining room air.<p>

**ShhhhWINGGGGGGG…**

Severus was the sudden crouch, the silent praise of innate honed reflexes prompting his automatic duck.

**THUNK.**

And the serving fork speared the wall deep. In space, it vibrated its twanging hums at his previous head level. The thought intruded: the preyed, pried, eyeball upon pricking prongs.

He stood and calmly ignored the fuming corset across the room and considered the fork-studded wall. This particular serving fork was but one star-brother amongst a colossal constellation…or rather an ireful galaxy of silver brethren. Practiced hands of a potioneer found its elaborate handle.

'_Seems a downright shame…_' he mildly thought, '_...the handle's been bent awry…_'

And so it had. It was an elaborate thing, a hardy design proud in virtue and yet seductive in delicacy and its unique oaths of self. Torque was applied and he wrenched the thing out the wall. Odd bents forced into the shaft now lent it a slightly sinister tone, and the prongs crooked askew in odd directions. His gaze couldn't help but be forced to analogous hair, to the fork-thrower, that she Death-Laugher, that Bellatrix Lestrange of the room.

His slow drawl was danger play, "Now really, Bella…tricks? And such tricks at that…"

Her almost sobriquet sat between them, sharper than any utensil. Sharper than even those on the ostentatious banquet table, the one Bellatrix apparently was tasked with setting. Demons prowled, and the second fork nicked his ear mid-flight, drawing rubies from cartilage. Ah, then…it seemed he'd reached the warning zone, as _His_ best lieutenant never missed. Only aimed with prized purpose.

Despite the deadly overtones of their exchange (this second almost skewing by dining flatware), still Snape had to smirk at the audacity, or rather the stupidity, of assigning Bellatrix Lestrange with anything so boring, so trivial as housework. Truly…even Narcissa wasn't _that_ daft.

In the oil lamplights, her fuming eyes burned black, and shades of red lit fires against her wild mane. Trademarked, her eyebrow rose, dared him…begged him even, to retaliate and allow her bloodletting. But that would satisfy the creature now suddenly forced into the normalcy of living, and apparently (his lip quirked) napkin folding by the looks of it. She was shredding them lazily, heirloom embroidered fabrics and all, with that curving wand. But no mistake he made. That lazy was _facade_; the eyes that tracked him, looking for fight, told this.

He decided bait was best tactic, for truce. It always was with Bellatrix…_Bellatricks_.

"Odd…" Deep timbres hinted, and gave nothing.

He moved on sarcastically, "As _always_, Bellatrix, a near-death experience. I was merely looking for Lucius…should you see him…" He trailed off, and left it.

Neither formal bow, nor head nod. His cloak billowed about in turn as leave was made. Then mental countdown, as his form passed under the doorway.

'_Three, two…_'

_One…_

"And just wot do 'ou mean by that 'ou _stupid_ man, _odd_?" A bit of cockney spat at him in her detestation, in her self-deprecating curiosity.

His back to her, the stop sudden was made. Bait had accomplished, it always did. His cloak whipped sound around. But he satisfied her, and his countenance with…nothing. Passive stone, the unreadable stoic. Spinner's End reminisced in Bella's mouth,

"Yer just no match fer such craft. Take yer empty words and slither away back to yer hole…" She mocked as crawling spider she did, but he heard the careful undertones of interest piqued.

She crept in her peculiar way, deadly seductive and capturing. Webs. Snape found her too close with that curled head cocked, considering him like an interesting fly-meal. But a meal with information. Bellatrix enjoyed playing a little _too_ much with her…food. But information extraction was her specialty, her choice flavor if you will. A DangerSafety could be found in information. It was the Safety-game of manipulation. After all, the spy-fly is never more secure than when caught in the web-net, and never stickier.

The tongue tantalized him as it grazed her top lip, her eyes narrowed, yet the wide jewels shining him as tasty victim. She was priestess. He was the well-baked dessert. The double agent, the actor overdone. He conceded.

"The _forks_, Bellatrix. Your sister'll have a fit when she sees her dinning room."

He pointedly flicked at the handle of another spoon that speared the wooden doorframe, before jerking it from its queer home.

"Somehow I doubt _wall_ was on the menu…"

At this, the woman graced him with a cocky smile of amusement. Snape was Snape. But Snape was a man. And any man had a hard time ignoring seductive features; Bella painted Black lore better than any of her forbearers…or peers. She made other women's antics and attributes appear lacking. And judging by the tightness of his pants under robes, Snape was having a very _hard_ time indeed. Bellatrix moved closer enjoying power. They two were close enough to waltz with the fork still in hand, should that be intended.

"Well then," she whispered, "perhaps, she should'a thought 'bout that then before making me the annual fam'ly banquet 'ostess." A sinister chuckle trickled out plump lips.

Snape reassessed his earlier opinion. Apparently Narcissa was that daft.

"And why would Lady Malfoy shirk her own duty?" he murmured.

"Lucius…" the name spat from wild eyes as vile.

**THUNK.**

Snape winced for several reasons. Smalls hands had stolen the fork from his own, chucking it with too much talent. The glossy sheen of a once flawless dining table now marred with the penetration of a quivering fork.

"_Lu-lu…_precious Lucy-boy…sent 'er out fer special meat pies." She hissed from hating lips. "Apparently, this was an_ imperative_ task…"

He swore that murder plots dripped from Bella's mind into existence. At his own expense, Snape attempted to divert attention, if only to spar Lucius' death by cutlery…

"But the obsession with forks, Bellatrix, I rather took you for a knife _lover_…not a _forker_."

She snapped her wit-whip back.

"Funny, _Snapey_, because I took 'ou for a fucker, not a silver judge of any sort. Why the fuck are 'ou discussing me choice of cutlery Snape? Do I look like a bloody 'ostess to 'ou, or someone that has any business playing house due to a baker's errand?"

Stupidly he opened his mouth to answer her rhetoric.

"Well…it could be worse, you could _be_ the baker." It was his sneering smirk that pushed her over that mad wall.

She threw him a calculating black look as her mind rolled into a pin. Wandlessly, fittingly, a pie materialized in her hand. Then it smacked him in the face.

"Have a little pie, Severus, should 'elp with plugging yer putrid pie-hole. Though from the looks of yer pants, it does rather look like 'ou want to _fork_ me own…_pie_." Her hands lewdly caressed her curves from the hips upward, lingering too long at her ample bosom.

Despite the pie now encrusting his eyebrows and dripping ooze down his neck, his jaw fell slack.

Bellatrix was gleeful, "Yer a fuck-wad, Snape, a fucker. But…I think I'll stick with me forks."

"Knives indeed?" She cackled.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note II:<strong> Have charity towards the world, my pets, and R & R. A bloody wonder of a crossover ain't it?_  
><em>

(Credit: _Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street, The Motion Picture Soundtrack/Movie_)


	3. Eire

**Eire** \ AIR-uh, AHY-ruh, AIR-ee, AHY-ree \ , noun;  
>1. the Irish name of Ireland.<br>2. a former name (1937–49) of the Republic of Ireland.

* * *

><p>Malfoy Manor was atwitter and the elves were less than pleased with the hullabaloo. They took a particular disinclination to Yaxley, who habitually liked to demand his meals exude a certain temperature. The head kitchen-elf Eire had taken to aggravating the lout — sending dishes at ridiculous temperatures.<p>

Narcissa had to admit; ice cream at room temperature was disgusting.

But then again, so was Yaxley.

She thought Bellatrix might have incinerated the hand that casually squeezed Cissy's ass upon his arrival. But even her sister was appeased by the Dark Lord's method of deterrent. So with ersatz on air, she scolded the kitchen creature and ordered him to double his efforts. Eire quite rose to the challenge.

And froze Yaxley's supper soup.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> R & R, lovelies.


End file.
